Tuck Everlasting

Tuck Everlasting

Natalie Babbitt

Table of Contents

Title
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue

Prologue

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year,
like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come
before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of
autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with
blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at
night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These
are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure
to be sorry for after.

One day at that time, not so very long ago, three things happened and at first there
appeared to be no connection between them.

At dawn, Mae Tuck set out on her horse for the wood at the edge of the village of
Treegap. She was going there, as she did once every ten years, to meet her two sons, Miles
and Jesse.

At noontime, Winnie Foster, whose family owned the Treegap wood, lost her patience at
last and decided to think about running away.

And at sunset a stranger appeared at the Fosters' gate. He was looking for someone, but he
didn't say who.

No connection, you would agree. But things can come together in strange ways. The wood
was at the center, the hub of the wheel. All wheels must have a hub. A Ferris wheel has one,
as the sun is the hub of the wheeling calendar. Fixed points they are, and best left
undisturbed, for without them, nothing holds together. But sometimes people find this out too
late.

1

The road that led to Treegap had been trod out long before by a herd of cows who were,
to say the least, relaxed. It wandered along in curves and easy angles, swayed off and up in a
pleasant tangent to the top of a small hill, ambled down again between fringes of bee-hung
clover, and then cut sidewise across a meadow. Here its edges blurred. It widened and
seemed to pause, suggesting tranquil bovine picnics: slow chewing and thoughtful
contemplation of the infinite. And then it went on again and came at last to the wood. But on
reaching the shadows of the first trees, it veered sharply, swung out in a wide arc as if, for
the first time, it had reason to think where it was going, and passed around.

On the other side of the wood, the sense of easiness dissolved. The road no longer
belonged to the cows. It became, instead, and rather abruptly, the property of people. And all
at once the sun was uncomfortably hot, the dust oppressive, and the meager grass along its
edges somewhat ragged and forlorn. On the left stood the first house, a square and solid
cottage with a touch-me-not appearance, surrounded by grass cut painfully to the quick and
enclosed by a capable iron fence some four feet high which clearly said, "Move on—we
don't want you here." So the road went humbly by and made its way, past cottages more and
more frequent but less and less forbidding, into the village. But the village doesn't matter,
except for the jailhouse and the gallows. The first house only is important; the first house, the
road, and the wood.

There was something strange about the wood. If the look of the first house suggested that
you'd better pass it by, so did the look of the wood, but for quite a different reason. The
house was so proud of itself that you wanted to make a lot of noise as you passed, and maybe
even throw a rock or two. But the wood had a sleeping, otherworld appearance that made
you want to speak in whispers. This, at least, is what the cows must have thought: "Let it
keep its peace; we won't disturb it."

Whether the people felt that way about the wood or not is difficult to say. There were
some, perhaps, who did. But for the most part the people followed the road around the wood
because that was the way it led.

There was no road through the wood. And anyway, for the people, there was another
reason to leave the wood to itself: it belonged to the Fosters, the owners of the touch-me-not
cottage, and was therefore private property in spite of the fact that it lay outside the fence and
was perfectly accessible.

The ownership of land is an odd thing when you come to think of it. How deep, after all,
can it go? If a person owns a piece of land, does he own it all the way down, in ever
narrowing dimensions, till it meets all other pieces at the center of the earth? Or does
ownership consist only of a thin crust under which the friendly worms have never heard of
trespassing?

In any case, the wood, being on top—except, of course, for its roots—was owned bud and

bough by the Fosters in the touch-me-not cottage, and if they never went there, if they never
wandered in among the trees, well, that was their affair. Winnie, the only child of the house,
never went there, though she sometimes stood inside the fence, carelessly banging a stick
against the iron bars, and looked at it. But she had never been curious about it. Nothing ever
seems interesting when it belongs to you—only when it doesn't.

And what is interesting, anyway, about a slim few acres of trees? There will be a dimness
shot through with bars of sunlight, a great many squirrels and birds, a deep, damp mattress of
leaves on the ground, and all the other things just as familiar if not so pleasant—things like
spiders, thorns, and grubs.

In the end, however, it was the cows who were responsible for the wood's isolation, and
the cows, through some wisdom they were not wise enough to know that they possessed,
were very wise indeed. If they had made their road through the wood instead of around it,
then the people would have followed the road. The people would have noticed the giant ash
tree at the center of the wood, and then, in time, they'd have noticed the little spring bubbling
up among its roots in spite of the pebbles piled there to conceal it. And that would have been
a disaster so immense that this weary old earth, owned or not to its fiery core, would have
trembled on its axis like a beetle on a pin.

2

And so, at dawn, that day in the first week of August, Mae Tuck woke up and lay for a
while beaming at the cobwebs on the ceiling. At last she said aloud, "The boys'll be home
tomorrow!"

Mae's husband, on his back beside her, did not stir. He was still asleep, and the
melancholy creases that folded his daytime face were smoothed and slack. He snored gently,
and for a moment the corners of his mouth turned upward in a smile. Tuck almost never
smiled except in sleep.

Mae sat up in bed and looked at him tolerantly. "The boys'll be home tomorrow," she said
again, a little more loudly.

Tuck twitched and the smile vanished. He opened his eyes. "Why'd you have to wake me
up?" he sighed. "I was having that dream again, the good one where we're all in heaven and
never heard of Treegap."

Mae sat there frowning, a great potato of a woman with a round, sensible face and calm
brown eyes. "It's no use having that dream," she said. "Nothing's going to change."

"You tell me that every day," said Tuck, turning away from her onto his side. "Anyways, I
can't help what I dream."

"Maybe not," said Mae. "But, all the same, you should've got used to things by now."
Tuck groaned. "I'm going back to sleep," he said.
"Not me," said Mae. "I'm going to take the horse and go down to the wood to meet them."
"Meet who?"
"The boys, Tuck! Our sons. I'm going to ride down to meet them."
"Better not do that," said Tuck.
"I know," said Mae, "but I just can't wait to see them. Anyways, it's ten years since I went
to Treegap. No one'll remember me. I'll ride in at sunset, just to the wood. I won't go into the
village. But, even if someone did see me, they won't remember. They never did before, now,
did they?"
"Suit yourself, then," said Tuck into his pillow. "I'm going back to sleep."
Mae Tuck climbed out of bed and began to dress: three petticoats, a rusty brown skirt with
one enormous pocket, an old cotton jacket, and a knitted shawl which she pinned across her
bosom with a tarnished metal brooch. The sounds of her dressing were so familiar to Tuck
that he could say, without opening his eyes,
"You don't need that shawl in the middle of the summer."
Mae ignored this observation. Instead, she said, "Will you be all right? We won't get back
till late tomorrow."
Tuck rolled over and made a rueful face at her. "What in the world could possibly happen
to me?"
"That's so," said Mae. "I keep forgetting."

"I don't," said Tuck. "Have a nice time." And in a moment he was asleep again.
Mae sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of short leather boots so thin and soft
with age it was a wonder they held together. Then she stood and took from the washstand
beside the bed a little square-shaped object, a music box painted with roses and lilies of the
valley. It was the one pretty thing she owned and she never went anywhere without it. Her
fingers strayed to the winding key on its bottom, but glancing at the sleeping Tuck, she shook
her head, gave the little box a pat, and dropped it into her pocket. Then, last of all, she pulled
down over her ears a blue straw hat with a drooping, exhausted brim.
But, before she put on the hat, she brushed her gray-brown hair and wound it into a bun at
the back of her neck. She did this quickly and skillfully without a single glance in the mirror.
Mae Tuck didn't need a mirror, though she had one propped up on the washstand. She knew
very well what she would see in it; her reflection had long since ceased to interest her. For
Mae Tuck, and her husband, and Miles and Jesse, too, had all looked exactly the same for
eighty-seven years.

3

At noon of that same day in the first week of August, Winnie Foster sat on the bristly grass
just inside the fence and said to the large toad who was squatting a few yards away across
the road, "I will, though. You'll see. Maybe even first thing tomorrow, while everyone's still
asleep."

It was hard to know whether the toad was listening or not. Certainly, Winnie had given it
good reason to ignore her. She had come out to the fence, very cross, very near the boiling
point on a day that was itself near to boiling, and had noticed the toad at once. It was the only
living thing in sight except for a stationary cloud of hysterical gnats suspended in the heat
above the road. Winnie had found some pebbles at the base of the fence and, for lack of any
other way to show how she felt, had flung one at the toad. It missed altogether, as she'd fully
intended it should, but she made a game of it anyway, tossing pebbles at such an angle that
they passed through the gnat cloud on their way to the toad. The gnats were too frantic to
notice these intrusions, however, and since every pebble missed its final mark, the toad
continued to squat and grimace without so much as a twitch. Possibly it felt resentful. Or
perhaps it was only asleep. In either case, it gave her not a glance when at last she ran out
ofpebbles and sat down to tell it her troubles.

"Look here, toad," she said, thrusting her arms through the bars of the fence and plucking
at the weeds on the other side. "I don't think I can stand it much longer."

At this moment a window at the front of the cottage was flung open and a thin voice—her
grandmother's—piped, "Winifred! Don't sit on that dirty grass. You'll stain your boots and
stockings."

And another, firmer voice—her mother's—added, "Come in now, Winnie. Right away.
You'll get heat stroke out there on a day like this. And your lunch is ready."

"See?" said Winnie to the toad. "That's just what I mean. It's like that every minute. If I had
a sister or a brother, there'd be someone else for them to watch. But, as it is, there's only me.
I'm tired of being looked at all the time. I want to be by myself for a change." She leaned her
forehead against the bars and after a short silence went on in a thoughtful tone. "I'm not
exactly sure what I'd do, you know, but something interesting—something that's all mine.
Something that would make some kind of difference in the world. It'd be nice to have a new
name, to start with, one that's not all worn out from being called so much. And I might even
decide to have a pet. Maybe a big old toad, like you, that I could keep in a nice cage with lots
of grass, and . . ."

At this the toad stirred and blinked. It gave a heave of muscles and plopped its heavy
mudball of a body a few inches farther away from her.

"I suppose you're right," said Winnie. "Then you'd be just the way I am, now. Why should
you have to be cooped up in a cage, too? It'd be better if I could be like you, out in the open
and making up my own mind.

Do you know they've hardly ever let me out of this yard all by myself? I'll never be able to
do anything important if I stay in here like this. I expect I'd better run away." She paused and
peered anxiously at the toad to see how it would receive this staggering idea, but it showed
no signs of interest. "You think I wouldn't dare, don't you?" she said accusingly. "I will,
though. You'll see. Maybe even first thing in the morning, while everyone's still asleep."

"Winnie!" came the firm voice from the window.
"All right! I'm coming!" she cried, exasperated, and then added quickly, "I mean, I'll be
right there, Mama."
She stood up, brushing at her legs where bits of itchy grass clung to her stockings.
The toad, as if it saw that their interview was over, stirred again, bunched up, and
bounced itself clumsily off toward the wood. Winnie watched it go. "Hop away, toad," she
called after it. "You'll see. Just wait till morning."

4

At sunset ofthat same long day, a stranger came strolling up the road from the village and
paused at the Fosters' gate. Winnie was once again in the yard, this time intent on catching
fireflies, and at first she didn't notice him. But, after a few moments of watching her, he
called out, "Good evening!"

He was remarkably tall and narrow, this stranger standing there. His long chin faded off
into a thin, apologetic beard, but his suit was a jaunty yellow that seemed to glow a little in
the fading light. A black hat dangled from one hand, and as Winnie came toward him, he
passed the other through his dry, gray hair, settling it smoothly. "Well, now," he said in a
light voice. "Out for fireflies, are you?"

"Yes," said Winnie.
"A lovely thing to do on a summer evening," said the man richly. "A lovely entertainment.
I used to do it myself when I was your age. But of course that was a long, long time ago." He
laughed, gesturing in self-deprecation with long, thin fingers. His tall body moved
continuously; a foot tapped, a shoulder twitched.
And it moved in angles, rather jerkily. But at the same time he had a kind of grace, like a
well-handled marionette. Indeed, he seemed almost to hang suspended there in the twilight.
But Winnie, though she was half charmed, was suddenly reminded of the stiff black ribbons
they had hung on the door of the cottage for her grandfather's funeral. She frowned and looked
at the man more closely. But his smile seemed perfectly all right, quite agreeable and
friendly.
"Is this your house?" asked the man, folding his arms now and leaning against the gate.
"Yes," said Winnie. "Do you want to see my father?"
"Perhaps. In a bit," said the man. "But I'd like to talk to you first. Have you and your
family lived here long?"
"Oh, yes," said Winnie. "We've lived here forever."
"Forever," the man echoed thoughtfully.
It was not a question, but Winnie decided to explain anyway. "Well, not forever, of
course, but as long as there've been any people here. My grandmother was born here. She
says this was all trees once, just one big forest everywhere around, but it's mostly all cut
down now. Except for the wood."
"I see," said the man, pulling at his beard. "So of course you know everyone, and
everything that goes on."
"Well, not especially," said Winnie. "At least, I don't. Why?"
The man lifted his eyebrows. "Oh," he said, "I'm looking for someone. A family."
"I don't know anybody much," said Winnie, with a shrug. "But my father might. You could
ask him."
"I believe I shall," said the man. "I do believe I shall."

At this moment the cottage door opened, and in the lamp glow that spilled across the
grass, Winnie's grandmother appeared. "Winifred? Who are you talking to out there?"

"It's a man, Granny," she called back. "He says he's looking for someone."
"What's that?" said the old woman. She picked up her skirts and came down the path to the
gate. "What did you say he wants?"
The man on the other side of the fence bowed slightly. "Good evening, madam," he said.
"How delightful to see you looking so fit."
"And why shouldn't I be fit?" she retorted, peering at him through the fading light. His
yellow suit seemed to surprise her, and she squinted suspiciously.
"We haven't met, that I can recall. Who are you? Who are you looking for?"
The man answered neither of these questions. Instead, he said, "This young lady tells me
you've lived here for a long time, so I thought you would probably know everyone who
comes and goes."
The old woman shook her head. "I don't know everyone," she said, "nor do I want to. And
I don't stand outside in the dark discussing such a thing with strangers. Neither does
Winifred. So . . ."
And then she paused. For, through the twilight sounds of crickets and sighing trees, a faint,
surprising wisp of music came floating to them, and all three turned toward it, toward the
wood. It was a tinkling little melody, and in a few moments it stopped.
"My stars!" said Winnie's grandmother, her eyes round. "I do believe it's come again, after
all these years!"
She pressed her wrinkled hands together, forgetting the man in the yellow suit. "Did you
hear that, Winifred?
That's it! That's the elf music I told you about. Why, it's been ages since I heard it last.
And this is the first time you've ever heard it, isn't it? Wait till we tell your father!" And she
seized Winnie's hand and turned to go back into the cottage.
"Wait!" said the man at the gate. He had stiffened, and his voice was eager. "You've heard
that music before, you say?"
But, before he could get an answer, it began again and they all stopped to listen. This time
it tinkled its way faintly through the little melody three times before it faded.
"It sounds like a music box," said Winnie when it was over.
"Nonsense. It's elves!" crowed her grandmother excitedly. And then she said to the man at
the gate, "You'll have to excuse us now." She shook the gate latch under his nose, to make
sure it was locked, and then, taking Winnie by the hand once more, she marched up the path
into the cottage, shutting the door firmly behind her.
But the man in the yellow suit stood tapping his foot in the road for a long time all alone,
looking at the wood. The last stains of sunset had melted away, and the twilight died, too, as
he stood there, though its remnants clung reluctantly to everything that was pale in color—
pebbles, the dusty road, the figure of the man himself—turning them blue and blurry.
Then the moon rose. The man came to himself and sighed. His expression was one of
intense satisfaction. He put on his hat, and in the moonlight his long fingers were graceful and
very white. Then he turned and disappeared down the shadowy road, and as he went he
whistled, very softly, the tinkling little melody from the wood.

5

Winnie woke early next morning. The sun was only just opening its own eye on the eastern
horizon and the cottage was full of silence. But she realized that sometime during the night
she had made up her mind: she would not run away today. "Where would I go, anyway?" she
asked herself. "There's nowhere else I really want to be." But in another part of her head, the
dark part where her oldest fears were housed, she knew there was another sort of reason for
staying at home: she was afraid to go away alone. It was one thing to talk about being by
yourself, doing important things, but quite another when the opportunity arose. The characters
in the stories she read always seemed to go offwithout a thought or care, but in real life—
well, the world was a dangerous place. People were always telling her so. And she would
not be able to manage without protection. They were always telling her that, too. No one ever
said precisely what it was that she would not be able to manage. But she did not need to ask.
Her own imagination supplied the horrors.

Still, it was galling, this having to admit she was afraid. And when she remembered the
toad, she felt even more disheartened. What if the toad should be out by the fence again
today? What if he should laugh at her secretly and think she was a coward?

Well, anyway, she could at least slip out, right now, she decided, and go into the wood.
To see if she could discover what had really made the music the night before. That would be
something, anyway. She did not allow herself to consider the idea that making a difference in
the world might require a bolder venture. She merely told herself consolingly, "Of course,
while I'm in the wood, if I decide never to come back, well then, that will be that." She was
able to believe in this because she needed to; and, believing, was her own true, promising
friend once more.

It was another heavy morning, already hot and breathless, but in the wood the air was
cooler and smelled agreeably damp. Winnie had been no more than two slow minutes
walking timidly under the interlacing branches when she wondered why she had never come
here before. "Why, it's nice!" she thought with great surprise.

For the wood was full of light, entirely different from the light she was used to. It was
green and amber and alive, quivering in splotches on the padded ground, fanning into sturdy
stripes between the tree trunks. There were little flowers she did not recognize, white and
palest blue; and endless, tangled vines; and here and there a fallen log, half rotted but soft
with patches of sweet green-velvet moss.

And there were creatures everywhere. The air fairly hummed with their daybreak activity:
beetles and birds and squirrels and ants, and countless other things unseen, all gentle and
self-absorbed and not in the least alarming. There was even, she saw with satisfaction, the
toad. It was squatting on a low stump and she might not have noticed it, for it looked more
like a mushroom than a living creature sitting there. As she came abreast of it, however, it
blinked, and the movement gave it away.

"See?" she exclaimed. "I told you I'd be here first thing in the morning."
The toad blinked again and nodded. Or perhaps it was only swallowing a fly. But then it
nudged itself off the edge of the stump and vanished in the underbrush.
"It must have been watching for me," said Winnie to herself, and was very glad she had
come.
She wandered for a long time, looking at everything, listening to everything, proud to
forget the tight, pruned world outside, humming a little now, trying to remember the pattern of
the melody she had heard the night before. And then, up ahead, in a place where the light
seemed brighter and the ground somewhat more open, something moved.
Winnie stopped abruptly and crouched down. "If it's really elves," she thought, "I can have
a look at them."
And, though her instinct was to turn and run, she was pleased to discover that her curiosity
was stronger. She began to creep forward. She would go just close enough, she told herself.
Just close enough to see. And then she would turn and run. But when she came near, up
behind a sheltering tree trunk, and peered around it, her mouth dropped open and all thought
of running melted away.
There was a clearing directly in front of her, at the center of which an enormous tree thrust
up, its thick roots rumpling the ground ten feet around in every direction. Sitting relaxed with
his back against the trunk was a boy, almost a man. And he seemed so glorious to Winnie that
she lost her heart at once.
He was thin and sunburned, this wonderful boy, with a thick mop of curly brown hair, and
he wore his battered trousers and loose, grubby shirt with as much self-assurance as if they
were silk and satin. A pair of green suspenders, more decorative than useful, gave the
finishing touch, for he was shoeless and there was a twig tucked between the toes of one foot.
He waved the twig idly as he sat there, his face turned up to gaze at the branches far above
him. The golden morning light seemed to glow all around him, while brighter patches fell,
now on his lean, brown hands, now on his hair and face, as the leaves stirred over his head.
Then he rubbed an ear carelessly, yawned, and stretched. Shifting his position, he turned
his attention to a little pile of pebbles next to him. As Winnie watched, scarcely breathing, he
moved the pile carefully to one side, pebble by pebble. Beneath the pile, the ground was
shiny wet. The boy lifted a final stone and Winnie saw a low spurt of water, arching up and
returning, like a fountain, into the ground. He bent and put his lips to the spurt, drinking
noiselessly and then he sat up again and drew his shirt sleeve across his mouth. As he did
this, he turned his face in her direction—and their eyes met.
For a long moment they looked at each other in silence, the boy with his arm still raised to
his mouth. Neither of them moved. At last his arm fell to his side. "You may as well come
out," he said, with a frown.
Winnie stood up, embarrassed and, because of that, resentful. "I didn't mean to watch
you," she protested as she stepped into the clearing. "I didn't know anyone would be here."
The boy eyed her as she came forward. "What're you doing here?" he asked her sternly.
"It's my wood," said Winnie, surprised by the question. "I can come here whenever I want
to. At least, I was never here before, but I could have come, any time."
"Oh," said the boy, relaxing a little. "You're one of the Fosters, then."

"I'm Winnie," she said. "Who are you?"
"I'm Jesse Tuck," he answered. "How do." And he put out a hand.
Winnie took his hand, staring at him. He was even more beautiful up close. "Do you live
nearby?" she managed at last, letting go of his hand reluctantly. "I never saw you before. Do
you come here a lot? No one's supposed to. It's our wood." Then she added quickly, "It's all
right, though, if you come here. I mean, it's all right with me."
The boy grinned. "No, I don't live nearby, and no, I don't come here often. Just passing
through. And thanks,
I'm glad it's all right with you."
"That's good," said Winnie irrelevantly. She stepped back and sat down primly a short
distance from him.
"How old are you, anyway?" she asked, squinting at him.
There was a pause. At last he said, "Why do you want to know?"
"I just wondered," said Winnie.
"All right. I'm one hundred and four years old," he told her solemnly.
"No, I mean really," she persisted.
"Well then," he said, "if you must know, I'm seventeen."
"Seventeen?"
"That's right."
"Oh," said Winnie hopelessly. "Seventeen. That's old."
"You have no idea," he agreed with a nod.
Winnie had the feeling he was laughing at her, but decided it was a nice kind of laughing.
"Are you married?" she asked next.
This time he laughed out loud. "No, I'm not married. Are you?"
Now it was Winnie's turn to laugh. "Of course not," she said. "I'm only ten. But I'll be
eleven pretty soon."
"And then you'll get married," he suggested.
Winnie laughed again, her head on one side, admiring him. And then she pointed to the
spurt of water. "Is that good to drink?" she asked. "I'm thirsty."
Jesse Tuck's face was instantly serious. "Oh, that. No—no, it's not," he said quickly. "You
mustn't drink from it. Comes right up out of the ground. Probably pretty dirty." And he began
to pile the pebbles over it again.
"Butyou drank some," Winnie reminded him.
"Oh. Did you see that?" He looked at her anxiously. "Well, me, I'll drink anything. I mean,
I'm used to it. It wouldn't be good for you, though."
"Why not?" said Winnie. She stood up. "It's mine, anyway, if it's in the wood. I want
some. I'm about dry as dust." And she went to where he sat, and knelt down beside the pile of
pebbles.
"Believe me, Winnie Foster," said Jesse, "it would be terrible for you if you drank any of
this water. Just terrible. I can't let you."
"Well, I still don't see why not," said Winnie plaintively. "I'm getting thirstier every
minute. If it didn't hurt you, it won't hurt me. If my papa was here, he'd let me have some."
"You're not going to tell him about it, are you?" said Jesse. His face had gone very pale

under its sunburn. He stood up and put a bare foot firmly on the pile of pebbles. "I knew this
would happen sooner or later. Now what am I going to do?"

As he said this, there was a crashing sound among the trees and a voice called, "Jesse?"
"Thank goodness!" said Jesse, blowing out his cheeks in relief. "Here comes Ma and
Miles. They'll know what to do."
And sure enough, a big, comfortable-looking woman appeared, leading a fat old horse,
and at her side was a young man almost as beautiful as Jesse. It was Mae Tuck with her other
son, Jesse's older brother. And at once, when she saw the two ofthem, Jesse with his foot on
the pile ofpebbles and Winnie on her knees beside him, she seemed to understand. Her hand
flew to her bosom, grasping at the old brooch that fastened her shawl, and her face went
bleak. "Well, boys," she said, "here it is. The worst is happening at last."

6

Afterward, when she thought about it, it seemed to Winnie that the next few minutes were
only a blur. First she was kneeling on the ground, insisting on a drink from the spring, and the
next thing she knew, she was seized and swung through the air, open-mouthed, and found
herself straddling the bouncing back of the fat old horse, with Miles and Jesse trotting along
on either side, while Mae ran puffing ahead, dragging on the bridle.

Winnie had often been haunted by visions of what it would be like to be kidnapped. But
none of her visions had been like this, with her kidnappers just as alarmed as she was
herself. She had always pictured a troupe of burly men with long black moustaches who
would tumble her into a blanket and bear her off like a sack of potatoes while she pleaded
for mercy. But, instead, it was they, Mae Tuck and Miles and Jesse, who were pleading.

"Please, child . . . dear, dear child . . . don't you be scared." This was Mae, trying to run
and call back over her shoulder at the same time. "We . . . wouldn't harm you ... for the
world."

"If you'd . . . yelled or anything"—this was Jesse—"someone might've heard you and . . .
that's too risky."

And Miles said, "We'll explain it. . . soon as we're far enough away."
Winnie herself was speechless. She clung to the saddle and gave herself up to the
astonishing fact that, though her heart was pounding and her backbone felt like a pipe full of
cold running water, her head was fiercely calm. Disconnected thoughts presented themselves
one by one, as if they had been waiting their turn in line.
"So this is what it's like to ride a horse—I was going to run away today anyway—what
will they say when I'm
not there for breakfast—I wish the toad could see me now—that woman is worried about
me—Miles is taller than Jesse—I'd better duck if I don't want this next branch to knock me
off."
They had come to the edge of the wood now, with no sign of slowing their rapid jog. The
road, where it angled across the meadow, was just ahead, dazzling white in the open sunlight
And there, standing on the road, was the man from the night before, the man in the yellow
suit, his black hat on his head.
Discovering him, seeing his surprise, and presented at once with choices, Winnie's mind
perversely went blank. Instead of crying out for help, she merely goggled at him as they fled
past the spot where he stood.
Mae Tuck was the only one who spoke, and the most she could offer was: "Teaching our
little girl. . . how to ride!" Only then did it come to Winnie that she ought to shout, wave her
arms, do something. But the man had fallen away behind by that time, and she was afraid to
let go ofthe saddle, afraid to turn around, lest she fall off the horse. In another moment it was
too late. They had sped up the hill and down its other side, and the opportunity was lost.

After another few minutes, the road led them to a place where, off to the left, a shallow
stream looped near, with willows and sheltering, scrubby bushes. "Stop!" cried Mae. "We'll
stop here!" Miles and Jesse grabbed at the horse's harness and he pulled up abruptly, nearly
toppling Winnie off over his neck. "Lift the poor child down," Mae gasped, her chest
heaving. "We'll go catch our breath by the water and try to put things straight before we go
on."

But the explanation, once they had stumbled to the banks of the stream, came hard. Mae
seemed embarrassed, and Miles and Jesse fidgeted, glancing at their mother uneasily. No one
knew how to begin. For her part,

Winnie, now that the running was over, began to comprehend what was happening, and
with the comprehension her throat closed and her mouth went dry as paper. This was no
vision. This was real.

Strangers were taking her away; they might do anything; she might never see her mother
again. And then, thinking of her mother, she saw herself as small, weak, and helpless, and she
began to cry, suddenly, crushed as much by outrage as by shock.

Mae Tuck's round face wrinkled in dismay. "Dear Lord, don't cry! Please don't cry,
child!" she implored.

"We're not bad people, truly we're not. We had to bring you away—you'll see why in a
minute—and we'll take you back just as soon as we can. Tomorrow. I promise."

When Mae said, "Tomorrow," Winnie's sobs turned to wails. Tomorrow! It was like
being told she would be kept away forever. She wanted to go home now, at once, rush back
to the safety of the fence and her mother's voice from the window. Mae reached out to her,
but she twisted away, her hands over her face, and gave herselfup to weeping.

"This is awful!" said Jesse. "Can't you do something, Ma? The poor little tad."
"We ought to've had some better plan than this, ” said Miles.
"That's the truth," said Mae helplessly. "The dear Lord knows there's been time enough to
think of one, and it had to happen sooner or later. We been plain bone lucky it hasn't before
now. But I never expected it'd be a child!” She reached distractedly into the pocket of her
skirt and took out the music box and, without thinking, twisted the winding key with trembling
fingers.
When the tinkling little melody began, Winnie's sobbing slowed. She stood by the stream,
her hands still over her face, and listened. Yes, it was the same music she had heard the night
before. Somehow it calmed her. It was like a ribbon tying her to familiar things. She thought,
"When I get home, I'll tell Granny it wasn't elf
music after all." She wiped her face as well as she could with her wet hands and turned to
Mae. "That's the music I heard last night," she managed between recovering snuffles. "When I
was out in my yard. My granny said it was elves."
"Dear me, no," said Mae, peering at her hopefully. "It's only my music box. I didn't
suppose anyone could hear it." She held it out to Winnie. "Do you want to take a look at it?"
"It's pretty," said Winnie, taking the little box and turning it over in her hands. The
winding key was still revolving, but more and more slowly. The melody faltered. Another
few widely spaced notes plinked, and then it stopped.
"Wind it up if you want to," said Mae. "Clockwise."

Winnie turned the key. It clicked faintly. And then, after several more turns, the music
began to play again, brisk from its fresh winding, and merry. No one who owned a thing like
this could be too disagreeable.

Winnie examined the painted roses and lilies of the valley, and smiled in spite of herself.
"It's pretty," she repeated, handing it back to Mae.

The music box had relaxed them all. Miles dragged a handkerchief from a back pocket and
mopped at his face, and Mae sank down heavily on a rock, pulling off the blue straw hat and
fanning herself with it.

"Look here, Winnie Foster," said Jesse. "We're friends, we really are. But you got to help
us. Come sit down, and we'll try to tell you why."

7

It was the strangest story Winnie had ever heard. She soon suspected they had never told it
before, except to each other—that she was their first real audience; for they gathered around
her like children at their mother's knee, each trying to claim her attention, and sometimes they
all talked at once, and interrupted each other, in their eagerness.

Eighty-seven years before, the Tucks had come from a long way to the east, looking for a
place to settle. In those days the wood was not a wood, it was a forest, just as her
grandmother had said: a forest that went on and on and on. They had thought they would start
a farm, as soon as they came to the end of the trees. But the trees never seemed to end. When
they came to the part that was now the wood, and turned from the trail to find a camping
place, they happened on the spring. "It was real nice," said Jesse with a sigh. "It looked just
the way it does now. A clearing, lots of sunshine, that big tree with all those knobby roots.
We stopped and everyone took a drink, even the horse."

"No," said Mae, "the cat didn't drink. That's important."
"Yes," said Miles, "don't leave that out. We all had a drink, except for the cat."
"Well, anyway," Jesse went on, "the water tasted—sort of strange. But we camped there
overnight. And Pa carved a T on the tree trunk, to mark where we'd been. And then we went
on."
They had come out of the forest at last, many miles to the west, had found a thinly
populated valley, had started their farm. "We put up a house for Ma and Pa," said Miles,
"and a little shack for Jesse and me. We figured we'd be starting families of our own pretty
soon and would want our own houses."
"That was the first time we figured there was something peculiar," said Mae. "Jesse fell
out of a tree ..."
"I was way up in the middle," Jesse interrupted, "trying to saw off some of the big
branches before we cut her down. I lost my balance and I fell. . ."
"He landed plum on his head," said Mae with a shudder. "We thought for sure he'd broke
his neck. But come to find out, it didn't hurt him a bit!"
"Not long after," Miles went on, "some hunters come by one day at sunset. The horse was
out grazing by some trees and they shot him. Mistook him for a deer, they said. Can you fancy
that? But the thing is, they didn't kill him. The bullet went right on through him, and didn't
hardly even leave a mark."
"Then Pa got snake bite ..."
"And Jesse ate the poison toadstools. . ."
"And I cut myself," said Mae. "Remember? Slicing bread."
But it was the passage of time that worried them most. They had worked the farm, settled
down, made friends. But after ten years, then twenty, they had to face the fact that there was
something terribly wrong.

None ofthem was getting any older.
"I was more'n forty by then," said Miles sadly. "I was married. I had two children. But,
from the look of me, I was still twenty-two. My wife, she finally made up her mind I'd sold
my soul to the Devil. She left me. She went away and she took the children with her."
"I'm glad I never got married," Jesse put in.
"It was the same with our friends," said Mae. "They come to pull back from us. There was
talk about witchcraft. Black magic. Well, you can't hardly blame them, but finally we had to
leave the farm. We didn't know where to go. We started back the way we come, just
wandering. We was like gypsies. When we got this far, it'd changed, ofcourse. A lot ofthe
trees was gone. There was people, and Treegap—it was a new village. The road was here,
but in those days it was mostly just a cow path. We went on into what was left of the wood to
make a camp, and when we got to the clearing and the tree and the spring, we remembered it
from before."
"It hadn't changed, no more'n we had," said Miles. "And that was how we found out. Pa'd
carved a T on the tree, remember, twenty years before, but the T was just where it'd been
when he done it. That tree hadn't grown one whit in all that time. It was exactly the same. And
the T he'd carved was as fresh as if it'd just been put there."
Then they had remembered drinking the water. They—and the horse. But not the cat. The
cat had lived a long and happy life on the farm, but had died some ten years before. So they
decided at last that the source oftheir changelessness was the spring.
"When we come to that conclusion," Mae went on, "Tuck said—that's my husband, Angus
Tuck—he said he had to be sure, once and for all. He took his shotgun and he pointed it at
hisself the best way he could, and before we could stop him, he pulled the trigger." There
was a long pause. Mae's fingers, laced together in her lap, twisted with the tension of
remembering. At last she said, "The shot knocked him down. Went into his heart. It had to,
the way he aimed. And right on through him. It scarcely even left a mark. Just like—you know
—like you shot a bullet through water. And he was just the same as if he'd never done it."
"After that we went sort of crazy," said Jesse, grinning at the memory. "Heck, we was
going to live forever.
Can you picture what it felt like to find that out?"
"But then we sat down and talked it over ..." said Miles.
"We're still talking it over," Jesse added.
"And we figured it'd be very bad if everyone knowed about that spring," said Mae. "We
begun to see what it would mean." She peered at Winnie. "Do you understand, child? That
water—it stops you right where you are. If you'd had a drink of it today, you'd stay a little
girl forever. You'd never grow up, not ever."
"We don't know how it works, or even why," said Miles.
"Pa thinks it's something left over from—well, from some other plan for the way the
world should be," said Jesse. "Some plan that didn't work out too good. And so everything
was changed. Except that the spring was passed over, somehow or other. Maybe he's right. I
don't know. But you see, Winnie Foster, when I told you before I'm a hundred and four years
old, I was telling the truth. But I'm really only seventeen. And, so far as I know, I'll stay
seventeen till the end of the world."

8

Winnie did not believe in fairy tales. She had never longed for a magic wand, did not
expect to marry a prince, and was scornful—most of the time—of her grandmother's elves.
So now she sat, mouth open, wide-eyed, not knowing what to make of this extraordinary
story. It couldn't—not a bit of it—be true. And yet:

"It feels so fine to tell somebody!" Jesse exploded. "Just think, Winnie Foster, you're the
only person in the world, besides us, who knows about it!"

"Hold on now," said Miles cautiously. "Maybe not. There might be a whole lot of others,
for all we know, wandering around just like us."

"Maybe. But we don't know them," Jesse pointed out. "We've never had anyone but us to
talk about it to.

Winnie—isn't it peculiar? And kind of wonderful? Just think of all the things we've seen
in the world! All the things we're going to see!"

"That kind of talk'll make her want to rush back and drink a gallon of the stuff," warned
Miles. "There's a whole lot more to it than Jesse Tuck's good times, you know."

"Oh, stuff," said Jesse with a shrug. "We might as well enjoy it, long as we can't change it.
You don't have to be such a parson all the time."

"I'm not being a parson," said Miles. "I just think you ought to take it more serious."
"Now, boys," said Mae. She was kneeling by the stream, splashing her face and hands
with cool water.
"Whew! Such weather!" she exclaimed, sitting back on her heels. She unfastened the
brooch, took off her shawl, and toweled her dripping face. "Well, child," she said to Winnie,
standing up, "now you share our secret. It's a big, dangerous secret. We got to have your help
to keep it. I expect you're full of questions, but we can't stay here no longer." She tied the
shawl around her waist then, and sighed. "It pains me to think how your ma and pa will
worry, but there's just no way around it. We got to take you home with us. That's the plan.
Tuck—he'll want to talk it out, make sure you see why you can't tell no one. But we'll bring
you back tomorrow. All right?" And all three ofthem looked at her hopefully.
"All right," said Winnie. For, she decided, there wasn't any choice. She would have to go.
They would probably make her go, anyway, no matter what she said. But she felt there was
nothing to be afraid of, not really. For they seemed gentle. Gentle and—in a strange way—
childlike. They made her feel old. And the way they spoke to her, the way they looked at her,
made her feel special. Important. It was a warm, spreading feeling, entirely new. She liked it,
and in spite of their story, she liked them, too—especially Jesse.
But it was Miles who took her hand and said, "It's really fine to have you along, even if
it's only for a day or two."
Then Jesse gave a great whoop and leapt into the stream, splashing mightily. "What'd you
bring for breakfast,

Ma?" he cried. "We can eat on the way, can't we? I'm starving!"
So, with the sun riding high now in the sky, they started off again, noisy in the August
stillness, eating bread and cheese. Jesse sang funny old songs in a loud voice and swung like
a monkey from the branches oftrees, showing off shamelessly for Winnie, calling to her,
"Hey, Winnie Foster, watch me!" and "Look what I can do!"
And Winnie, laughing at him, lost the last of her alarm. They were friends, her friends.
She was running away after all, but she was not alone. Closing the gate on her oldest fears as
she had closed the gate of her own fenced yard, she discovered the wings she'd always
wished she had. And all at once she was elated. Where were the terrors she'd been told she
should expect? She could not recognize them anywhere. The sweet earth opened out its wide
four corners to her like the petals of a flower ready to be picked, and it shimmered with light
and possibility till she was dizzy with it. Her mother's voice, the feel of home, receded for
the moment, and her thoughts turned forward. Why, she, too, might live forever in this
remarkable world she was only just discovering! The story of the spring—it might be true!
So that, when she was not rolling along on the back of the fat old horse—by choice, this time
—she ran shouting down the road, her arms flung out, making more noise than anybody.
It was good. So good, in fact, that through it all, not one of them noticed that the man they
had passed on the road, the man in the yellow suit, had crept up to the bushes by the stream
and heard it all, the whole fantastic story. Nor did they notice that he was following now,
beside the road far behind, his mouth, above the thin, gray beard, turned ever so slightly
toward a smile.

9

The August sun rolled up, hung at mid-heaven for a blinding hour, and at last wheeled
westward before the journey was done. But Winnie was exhausted long before that. Miles
carried her some of the way. The tops of her cheeks were bright pink with sunburn, her nose
a vivid, comic red, but she had been rescued from a more serious broiling by Mae, who had
finally insisted that she wear the blue straw hat. It came down far over her ears and gave her
a clownish appearance, but the shade from its brim was so welcome that Winnie put vanity
aside and dozed gratefully in Miles's strong arms, her own arms wound around his neck.

The pastures, fields, and scrubby groves they crossed were vigorous with bees, and
crickets leapt before them as if each step released a spring and flung them up like pebbles.
But everything else was motionless, dry as biscuit, on the brink of burning, hoarding final
reservoirs of sap, trying to hold out till the rain returned, and Queen Anne's lace lay dusty on
the surface ofthe meadows like foam on a painted sea.

It was amazing, then, to climb a long hill, to see ahead another hill, and beyond that the
deep green of a scattered pine forest, and as you climbed, to feel the air ease and soften.
Winnie revived, sniffing, and was able to ride the horse again, perched behind Mae. And to
her oft-repeated question, "Are we almost there?" the welcome answer came at last: "Only a
few more minutes now."

A wide stand of dark pines rose up, loomed nearer, and suddenly Jesse was crying,
"We're home! This is it,

Winnie Foster!" And he and Miles raced on and disappeared among the trees. The horse
followed, turning onto a rutted path lumpy with roots, and it was as if they had slipped in
under a giant colander. The late sun's brilliance could penetrate only in scattered glimmers,
and everything was silent and untouched, the ground muffled with moss and sliding needles,
the graceful arms ofthe pines stretched out protectively in every direction. And it was cool,
blessedly cool and green. The horse picked his way carefully, and then ahead the path
dropped down a steep embankment; and beyond that, Winnie, peering around Mae's bulk,
saw a flash of color and a dazzling sparkle. Down the embankment they swayed and there it
was, a plain, homely little house, barn-red, and below it the last of the sun flashing on the
wrinkled surface of a tiny lake.

"Oh, look!" cried Winnie. "Water!"
At the same time, they heard two enormous splashes, two voices roaring with pleasure.
"It don't take 'em more'n a minute to pile into that pond," said Mae, beaming. "Well, you
can't blame 'em in heat like this. You can go in, too, if you want."
Then they were at the door of the little house and Tuck was standing there. "Where's the
child?" he demanded, for Winnie was hidden behind his wife. "The boys say you brung along
a real, honest-to-goodness, natural child!"
"So I did," said Mae, sliding down off the horse, "and here she is."

Winnie's shyness returned at once when she saw the big man with his sad face and baggy
trousers, but as he gazed at her, the warm, pleasing feeling spread through her again. For
Tuck's head tilted to one side, his eyes went soft, and the gentlest smile in the world
displaced the melancholy creases ofhis cheeks. He reached up to lift her from the horse's
back and he said, "There's just no words to tell you how happy I am to see you. It's the finest
thing that's happened in . . ."He interrupted himself, setting Winnie on the ground, and turned
to Mae. "Does she know?"

"Course she knows," said Mae. "That's why I brung her back. Winnie, here's my husband,
Angus Tuck. Tuck, meet Winnie Foster."

"How do, Winnie Foster," said Tuck, shaking Winnie's hand rather solemnly. "Well,
then!" He straightened and peered down at her, and Winnie, looking back into his face, saw
an expression there that made her feel like an unexpected present, wrapped in pretty paper
and tied with ribbons, in spite ofMae's blue hat, which still enveloped her head. "Well, then,"
Tuck repeated, "seeing you know, I'll go on and say this is the finest thing that's happened in
—oh—at least eighty years."

10

Winnie had grown up with order. She was used to it. Under the pitiless double assaults of
her mother and grandmother, the cottage where she lived was always squeaking clean,
mopped and swept and scoured into limp submission. There was no room for carelessness,
no putting things off until later. The Foster women had made a fortress out of duty. Within it,
they were indomitable. And Winnie was in training.

So she was unprepared for the homely little house beside the pond, unprepared for the
gentle eddies of dust, the silver cobwebs, the mouse who lived—and welcome to him!—in a
table drawer. There were only three rooms. The kitchen came first, with an open cabinet
where dishes were stacked in perilous towers without the least regard for their varying
dimensions. There was an enormous black stove, and a metal sink, and every surface, every
wall, was piled and strewn and hung with everything imaginable, from onions to lanterns to
wooden spoons to wash-tubs. And in a corner stood Tuck's forgotten shotgun.

The parlor came next, where the furniture, loose and sloping with age, was set about
helter-skelter. An ancient green-plush sofa lolled alone in the center, like yet another mossy
fallen log, facing a soot-streaked fireplace still deep in last winter's ashes. The table with the
drawer that housed the mouse was pushed off, also alone, into a far corner, and three
armchairs and an elderly rocker stood about aimlessly, like strangers at a party, ignoring
each other.

Beyond this was the bedroom, where a vast and tipsy brass bed took up most of the space,
but there was room beside it for the washstand with the lonely mirror, and opposite its foot a
cavernous oak wardrobe from which leaked the faint smell of camphor.

Up a steep flight of narrow stairs was a dusty loft—"That's where the boys sleep when
they're home," Mae explained—and that was all. And yet it was not quite all. For there was
everywhere evidence of their activities, Mae's and Tuck's. Her sewing: patches and scraps of
bright cloth; half-completed quilts and braided rugs; a bag of cotton batting with wisps of its
contents, like snow, drifting into cracks and corners; the arms of the sofa webbed with
strands of thread and dangerous with needles. His wood carving: curly shavings furring the
floor, and little heaps of splinters and chips; every surface dim with the sawdust of countless
sandings; limbs of unassembled dolls and wooden soldiers; a ship model propped on the
mouse's table, waiting for its glue to dry; and a stack of wooden bowls, their sides smoothed
to velvet, the topmost bowl filled with a jumble of big wooden spoons and forks, like dry,
bleached bones. "We make things to sell," said Mae, surveying the mess approvingly.

And still this was not all. For, on the old beamed ceiling of the parlor, streaks of light
swam and danced and wavered like a bright mirage, reflected through the windows from the
sunlit surface of the pond. There were bowls of daisies everywhere, gay white and yellow.
And over everything was the clean, sweet smell of the water and its weeds, the chatter of a
swooping kingfisher, the carol and trill of a dozen other kinds of bird, and occasionally the

thrilling bass note of an unastonished bullfrog at ease somewhere along the muddy banks.
Into it all came Winnie, eyes wide, and very much amazed. It was a whole new idea to her

that people could live in such disarray, but at the same time she was charmed. It was . . .
comfortable. Climbing behind Mae up the stairs to see the loft, she thought to herself: "Maybe
it's because they think they have forever to clean it up." And this was followed by another
thought, far more revolutionary: "Maybe they just don't care!"

"The boys don't be home very much," said Mae as they came up into the half light of the
loft. "But when they are, they bed up here. There's plenty of room." The loft was cluttered,
too, with all kinds of odds and ends, but there were two mattresses rolled out on the floor,
and fresh sheets and blankets were folded almost neatly on each, waiting to be spread.

"Where do they go when they're away?" asked Winnie. "What do they do?"
"Oh," said Mae, "they go different places, do different things. They work at what jobs they
can get, try to bring home some oftheir money. Miles can do carpentering, and he's a pretty
fair blacksmith, too. Jesse now, he don't ever seem too settled in himself. Course, he's
young." She stopped and smiled. "That sounds funny, don't it? Still, it's true, just the same. So
Jesse, he does what strikes him at the moment, working in the fields, or in saloons, things like
that, whatever he comes across. But they can't stay on in any one place for long, you know.
None of us can. People get to wondering." She sighed. "We been in this house about as long
as we dare, going on twenty years. It's a right nice place. Tuck's got so's he's real attached to
it. Then, too, it's off by itself, plenty of fish in the pond, not too far from the towns around.
When we need things, we go sometimes to one, sometimes the next, so people don't come to
notice us much. And we sell where we can. But I guess we'll be moving on, one of these
days. It's j ust about time."
It sounded rather sad to Winnie, never to belong anywhere. "That's too bad," she said,
glancing shyly at Mae.
"Always moving around and never having any friends or anything."
But Mae shrugged off this observation. "Tuck and me, we got each other," she said, "and
that's a lot. The boys, now, they go their separate ways. They're some different, don't always
get on too good. But they come home whenever the spirit moves, and every ten years, first
week ofAugust, they meet at the spring and come home together so's we can be a family again
for a little while. That's why we was there this morning. One way or another, it all works
out." She folded her arms and nodded, more to herself than to Winnie. "Life's got to be lived,
no matter how long or short," she said calmly. "You got to take what comes. We just go
along, like everybody else, one day at a time. Funny—we don't feel no different. Leastways, I
don't. Sometimes I forget about what's happened to us, forget it altogether. And then
sometimes it comes over me and I wonder why it happened to us. We're plain as salt, us
Tucks. We don't deserve no blessings—ifit is a blessing. And, likewise,
I don't see how we deserve to be cursed, if it's a curse. Still—there's no use trying to
figure why things fall the way they do. Things just are, and fussing don't bring changes. Tuck,
now, he's got a few other ideas, but I expect he'll tell you. There! The boys are in from the
pond."
Winnie heard a burst of voices downstairs, and in a moment Miles and Jesse were
climbing to the loft.

"Here, child," said Mae hastily. "Hide your eyes. Boys? Are you decent? What'd you put
on to swim in? I got Winnie up here, do you hear me?"

"For goodness' sake, Ma," said Jesse, emerging from the stairwell. "You think we're going
to march around in our altogether with Winnie Foster in the house?"

And Miles, behind him, said, "We just jumped in with our clothes on. Too hot and tired to
shed 'em."

It was true. They stood there side by side with their wet clothes plastered to their skins,
little pools ofwater collecting at their feet.

"Well!" said Mae, relieved. "All right. Find something dry to put on. Your pa's got supper
nearly ready." And she hustled Winnie down the narrow stairs.

11

It was a good supper, flapjacks, bacon, bread, and applesauce, but they ate sitting about in
the parlor instead of around a table. Winnie had never had a meal that way before and she
watched them carefully at first, to see what rules there might be that she did not know about.
But there seemed to be no rules. Jesse sat on the floor and used the seat of a chair for a table,
but the others held their plates in their laps. There were no napkins. It was all right, then, to
lick the maple syrup from your fingers. Winnie was never allowed to do such a thing at home,
but she had always thought it would be the easiest way. And suddenly the meal seemed
luxurious.

After a few minutes, however, it was clear to Winnie that there was at least one rule: As
long as there was food to eat, there was no conversation. All four Tucks kept their eyes and
their attention on the business at hand. And in the silence, given time to think, Winnie felt her
elation, and her thoughtless pleasure, wobble and collapse.

It had been different when they were out-of-doors, where the world belonged to everyone
and no one. Here, everything was theirs alone, everything was done their way. Eating, she
realized now, was a very personal thing, not something to do with strangers. Chewing was a
personal thing. Yet here she was, chewing with strangers in a strange place. She shivered a
little, and frowned, looking round at them. That story they had told her—why, they were
crazy, she thought harshly, and they were criminals. They had kidnapped her, right out of the
middle of her very own wood, and now she would be expected to sleep—all night—in this
dirty, peculiar house. She had never slept in any bed but her own in her life. All these
thoughts flowed at once from the dark part of her mind. She put down her fork and said,
unsteadily, "I want to go home."

The Tucks stopped eating, and looked at her, surprised. Mae said soothingly, "Why, of
course you do, child.

That's only natural. I'll take you home. I promised I would, soon's we've explained a bit as
to why you got to promise you'll never tell about the spring. That's the only reason we brung
you here. We got to make you see why."

Then Miles said, cheerfully and with sudden sympathy, "There's a pretty good old
rowboat. I'll take you out for a row after supper."

"No, I will," said Jesse. "Let me. I found her first, didn't I, Winnie Foster? Listen, I'll
show you where the frogs are, and . . ."

"Hush," Tuck interrupted. "Everyone hush. I'll take Winnie rowing on the pond. There's a
good deal to be said and I think we better hurry up and say it. I got a feeling there ain't a
whole lot of time."

Jesse laughed at this, and ran a hand roughly through his curls. "That's funny, Pa. Seems to
me like time's the only thing we got a lot of."

But Mae frowned. "You worried, Tuck? What's got you? No one saw us on the way up.

Well, now, wait a bit—yes, they did, come to think of it. There was a man on the road, just
outside Treegap. But he didn't say nothing."

"He knows me, though," said Winnie. She had forgotten, too, about the man in the yellow
suit, and now, thinking of him, she felt a surge of relief. "He'll tell my father he saw me."

"He knows you?" said Mae, her frown deepening. "But you didn't call out to him, child.
Why not?"

"I was too scared to do anything, " said Winnie honestly.
Tuck shook his head. "I never thought we'd come to the place where we'd be scaring
children," he said. "I guess there's no way to make it up to you, Winnie, but I'm sure most
awful sorry it had to happen like that.
Who was this man you saw?"
"I don't know his name," said Winnie. "But he's a pretty nice man, I guess." In fact, he
seemed supremely nice to her now, a kind of savior. And then she added, "He came to our
house last night, but he didn't go inside."
"Well, that don't sound too serious, Pa," said Miles. "Just some stranger passing by."
"Just the same, we got to get you home again, Winnie," said Tuck, standing up decisively.
"We got to get you home just as fast as we can. I got a feeling this whole thing is going to
come apart like wet bread. But first we got to talk, and the pond's the best place. The pond's
got answers. Come along, child. Let's go out on the water."

12

The sky was a ragged blaze of red and pink and orange, and its double trembled on the
surface of the pond like color spilled from a paintbox. The sun was dropping fast now, a soft
red sliding egg yolk, and already to the east there was a darkening to purple. Winnie, newly
brave with her thoughts of being rescued, climbed boldly into the rowboat. The hard heels of
her buttoned boots made a hollow banging sound against its wet boards, loud in the warm
and breathless quiet. Across the pond a bullfrog spoke a deep note of warning. Tuck climbed
in, too, pushing off, and, settling the oars into their locks, dipped them into the silty bottom in
one strong pull. The rowboat slipped from the bank then, silently, and glided out, tall water
grasses whispering away from its sides, releasing it.

Here and there the still surface of the water dimpled, and bright rings spread noiselessly
and vanished.

"Feeding time," said Tuck softly. And Winnie, looking down, saw hosts of tiny insects
skittering and skating on the surface. "Best time of all for fishing," he said, "when they come
up to feed."

He dragged on the oars. The rowboat slowed and began to drift gently toward the farthest
end of the pond. It was so quiet that Winnie almost jumped when the bullfrog spoke again.
And then, from the tall pines and birches that ringed the pond, a wood thrush caroled. The
silver notes were pure and clear and lovely.

"Know what that is, all around us, Winnie?" said Tuck, his voice low. "Life. Moving,
growing, changing, never the same two minutes together. This water, you look out at it every
morning, and it looks the same, but it ain't. All night long it's been moving, coming in through
the stream back there to the west, slipping out through the stream down east here, always
quiet, always new, moving on. You can't hardly see the current, can you? And sometimes the
wind makes it look like it's going the other way. But it's always there, the water's always
moving on, and someday, after a long while, it comes to the ocean."

They drifted in silence for a time. The bullfrog spoke again, and from behind them, far
back in some reedy, secret place, another bullfrog answered. In the fading light, the trees
along the banks were slowly losing their dimensions, flattening into silhouettes clipped from
black paper and pasted to the paling sky. The voice of a different frog, hoarser and not so
deep, croaked from the nearest bank.

"Know what happens then?" said Tuck. "To the water? The sun sucks some of it up right
out of the ocean and carries it back in clouds, and then it rains, and the rain falls into the
stream, and the stream keeps moving on, taking it all back again. It's a wheel, Winnie.
Everything's a wheel, turning and turning, never stopping. The frogs is part of it, and the bugs,
and the fish, and the wood thrush, too. And people. But never the same ones.

Always coming in new, always growing and changing, and always moving on. That's the
way it's supposed to be. That's the way it is. ’’

The rowboat had drifted at last to the end of the pond, but now its bow bumped into the
rotting branches of a fallen tree that thrust thick fingers into the water. And though the current
pulled at it, dragging its stern sidewise, the boat was wedged and could not follow. The
water slipped past it, out between clumps ofreeds and brambles, and gurgled down a narrow
bed, over stones and pebbles, foaming a little, moving swiftly now after its slow trip
between the pond's wide banks. And, farther down, Winnie could see that it hurried into a
curve, around a leaning willow, and disappeared.

"It goes on," Tuck repeated, "to the ocean. But this rowboat now, it's stuck. If we didn't
move it out ourself, it would stay here forever, trying to get loose, but stuck. That's what us
Tucks are, Winnie. Stuck so's we can't move on. We ain't part of the wheel no more. Dropped
off, Winnie. Left behind. And everywhere around us, things is moving and growing and
changing. You, for instance. A child now, but someday a woman. And after that, moving on to
make room for the new children."

Winnie blinked, and all at once her mind was drowned with understanding ofwhat he was
saying. For she—yes, even she—would go out of the world willy-nilly someday. Just go out,
like the flame of a candle, and no use protesting. It was a certainty. She would try very hard
not to think of it, but sometimes, as now, it would be forced upon her. She raged against it,
helpless and insulted, and blurted at last, "I don't want to die."

"No," said Tuck calmly. "Not now. Your time's not now. But dying's part of the wheel,
right there next to being born. You can't pick out the pieces you like and leave the rest. Being
part of the whole thing, that's the blessing. But it's passing us by, us Tucks. Living's heavy
work, but off to one side, the way we are, it's useless, too. It don't make sense. IfI knowed
how to climb back on the wheel, I'd do it in a minute. You can't have living without dying. So
you can't call it living, what we got. We just are, we just be, like rocks beside the road."

Tuck's voice was rough now, and Winnie, amazed, sat rigid. No one had ever talked to her
of things like this before. "I want to grow again," he said fiercely, "and change. And if that
means I got to move on at the end of it, then I want that, too. Listen, Winnie, it's something
you don't find out how you feel until afterwards. If people knowed about the spring down
there in Treegap, they'd all come running like pigs to slops. They'd trample each other, trying
to get some ofthat water. That'd be bad enough, but afterwards—can you imagine?

All the little ones little forever, all the old ones old forever. Can you picture what that
means? Forever? The wheel would keep on going round, the water rolling by to the ocean,
but the people would've turned into nothing but rocks by the side of the road. 'Cause they
wouldn't know till after, and then it'd be too late." He peered at her, and Winnie saw that his
face was pinched with the effort of explaining. "Do you see, now, child? Do you understand?
Oh, Lord, I just got to make you understand!"

There was a long, long moment of silence. Winnie, struggling with the anguish of all these
things, could only sit hunched and numb, the sound ofthe water rolling in her ears. It was
black and silky now; it lapped at the sides ofthe rowboat and hurried on around them into the
stream.

And then, down the length of the pond, a voice rang out. It was Miles, and every word,
across the water, came clearly to their ears. "Pa! Pa, come back! Something's happened, Pa.
The horse is gone. Can you hear me? Someone's stole the horse."

13

Sometime later, the man in the yellow suit slipped down from the saddle and tied the
Tucks' old horse to a bar of the Fosters' fence. He tried the gate. It was unlocked. He pushed
through and strode up the path to the door ofthe cottage. Though it was very late now, almost
midnight, the windows glowed golden: the family had not gone to bed. The man in the yellow
suit took off his hat and smoothed his hair with long white fingers. Then he knocked at the
door. It was opened at once by Winnie's grandmother, and before she could speak, the man
said quickly, "Ah! Good evening! May I come in? I have happy news for you. I know where
they've taken the little girl."

14

There had been nothing for the Tucks to do but go to bed. It was too dark now to go out
looking for the horse thief, and anyway, they had no idea when he had done his thieving or
which way he had gone.

"That beats all, though, don't it, Pa," said Jesse, "coming up to a person's house and
stealing their horse right out from under their nose!"

"I got to give you that," said Tuck. "But the question is, was it just some ordinary thief, or
was it someone that had some special reason? I don't like it. I got a bad feeling about the
whole thing."

"Hush now, Tuck," said Mae. She was spreading a quilt on the old sofa, making it into a
bed for Winnie.

"You're too much of a worrier. There's nothing we can do about it now, so there's no
sense fussing. You got no reason to think there's anything peculiar about it, anyway. Come on,
we'll get a good night's sleep and figure it out in the morning when we're fresh. Boys, up you
go, and don't get talking—you'll keep us awake.

Winnie, child, you bed down, too. You'll sleep first-rate on the sofa here."
But Winnie did not sleep at all, not for a long, long time. The cushions of the sofa were
remarkably lumpy and smelled like old newspapers; and the chair pad Mae had given her for
a pillow was thin and hard, and rough under her cheek. But far worse than this was the fact
that she was still in her clothes, for she had firmly refused the offer of Mae's spare
nightgown, with its seeming miles of faded cotton flannel. Only her own nightgown would
do, and the regular bedtime routine; without them, she was painfully lonely for home. Her joy
on the road that morning had completely disappeared; the wide world shrank and her oldest
fears rolled freely in her consciousness. It was unbelievable that she should be in this place;
it was an outrage. But she was helpless to do anything about it, helpless to control it, and
exhausted by the conversation in the rowboat.
Was it true? Could they really never die, these Tucks? It had evidently not occurred to
them that she might not believe it. They were only concerned that she keep the secret. Well,
she did not believe it. It was nonsense. Wasn't it? Well, wasn't it?
Winnie's head whirled. Remembering the man in the yellow suit was the only thing that
kept her from weeping. "He's told them by now," she thought, rehearsing it. "They've been
looking for me for hours. But they don't know where to look! No. The man saw which way
we were headed. Papa will find me. They're out looking for me right now."
She went over it again and again, lying wrapped in the quilt, while outside the moon rose,
turning the pond to silver. There was a hint of mist, now that the air was cooler, and the frogs
talked comfortably. Crickets soon joined in with their shrill, rhythmic song. In the table
drawer, the mouse rustled softly, enjoying the supper of flapjack crumbs Mae had put there
for him. And at last these things were clearer in Winnie's ears than the voice of her thoughts.

She began to relax, listening to the sound-filled silence. Then, just as she was drifting into
sleep, she heard soft footsteps and Mae was beside her. "You resting easy, child?" she
whispered.

"I'm all right, thank you," said Winnie.
"I'm sorry about everything," said Mae. "I just didn't know no other way but to bring you
back with us. I know it ain't very happy for you here, but . . . well . . . anyway, you have a
good talk with Tuck?"
"I guess so," said Winnie.
"That's good. Well. I'm going back to bed. Get a good sleep."
"All right," said Winnie.
But still Mae lingered. "We been alone so long," she said at last, "I guess we don't know
how to do with visitors. But still and all, it's a good feeling, you being here with us. I wish
you was . . . ours." She put out an awkward hand then and touched Winnie's hair. "Well," she
said, "good night."
"Good night," said Winnie.
Tuck came, too, a little later, to peer down at her anxiously. He was wearing a long white
nightshirt and his hair was rumpled. "Oh!" he said. "You still awake? Everything all right?"
"Yes," said Winnie.
"I didn't mean to go disturbing you," he said. "But I been laying in there thinking I ought to
be setting out here with you till you went to sleep."
"You don't have to do that," said Winnie, surprised and touched. "I'm all right."
He looked uncertain. "Well. . . but if you want something, will you holler? I'm just in the
next room—I'd be out here like a shot." And then he added, gruffly, "It's been quite a time
since we had a natural, growing child in the house ..." His voice trailed off. "Well. Try to get
some sleep. That sofa there, I guess it ain't the kind of thing you're used to."
"It's fine," said Winnie.
"The bed's no better, or I'd switch with you," he said. He didn't seem to know how to
finish the conversation.
But then he bent and kissed her quickly on the cheek, and was gone.
Winnie lay with her eyes wide. She felt cared for and—confused. And all at once she
wondered what would happen to the Tucks when her father came. What would he do to them?
She would never be able to explain how they had been with her, how they made her feel. She
remembered guiltily that at supper she had decided they were criminals. Well, but they were.
And yet. . .
And then a final visitor made her confusion complete. There was a creaking on the loft
stairs and Jesse was looking down at her, very beautiful and eager in the faint blue
moonlight. "Hey, Winnie Foster," he whispered.
"You asleep?"
This time she sat up, pulling the quilt around her in sudden embarrassment, and answered,
"No, not yet."
"Well then, listen." He knelt beside her, his curls tumbled and his eyes wide. "I been
thinking it over. Pa's right about you having to keep the secret. It's not hard to see why. But
the thing is, you knowing about the water already, and living right next to it so's you could go

there any time, well, listen, how'd it be if you was to wait till you're seventeen, same age as
me—heck, that's only six years off—and then you could go and drink some,

and then you could go away with me! We could get married, even. That'd be pretty good,
wouldn't it! We could have a grand old time, go all around the world, see everything. Listen,
Ma and Pa and Miles, they don't know how to enjoy it, what we got. Why, heck, Winnie,
life's to enjoy yourself, isn't it? What else is it good for? That's what I say. And you and me,
we could have a good time that never, never stopped. Wouldn't that be something?"

Once more Winnie adored him, kneeling there beside her in the moonlight. He wasn't
crazy. How could he be? He was just—amazing. But she was struck dumb. All she could do
was stare at him.

"You think on it, Winnie Foster," Jesse whispered earnestly. "Think on it some and see if
it don't sound good.

Anyway, I'll see you in the morning. All right?"
"All right," she managed to whisper in return. He slipped away then, back up the creaking
steps, but Winnie sat upright, wide awake, her cheeks burning. She could not deal with this
remarkable suggestion, she could not "think on it." For she didn't know what to believe about
anything. She lay down again, finally, and stared into the moonlight for another half an hour
before she fell asleep.

15

In Treegap, the same moonlight silvered the roofofthe touch-me-not cottage, but inside, the
lamps were burning. "That's right," said the man in the yellow suit. "I know where she is." He
sat back in his chair in the Fosters' spotless parlor, crossing his long, thin legs, and the
suspended foot began a rhythmic jiggling. He hung his hat on his knee and smiled, his eyes
nearly closed. "I followed them, you see. She's with them now.

As soon as I saw they'd arrived at their destination, I turned around and came directly
back. I thought you'd be staying up. You've been looking for her all day, of course. It must be
quite a worry."

He lifted a hand then, ignoring their exclamations, and began to smooth the thin hairs of his
beard. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I've come a long way, looking for a wood exactly
like the one you've got next door here. It would mean a great deal to me to own it. And how
pleasant to have neighbors like yourselves!

Now, understand, I wouldn't cut down many of the trees. I'm no barbarian, you can see
that. No, just a few.

You wouldn't find it different at all, really." He gestured with his long, white fingers and
smiled, his face crinkling pleasantly. "We'd be good friends, I think. Why, the little girl and I,
we're friends already. It would be a great relief to see her safely home again, wouldn't it?"
He clicked his tongue and frowned. "Dreadful thing, kidnapping. Isn't it fortunate that I was a
witness! Why, without me, you might never have heard a word. They're rough country people,
the ones that took her. There's just no telling what illiterates like that might do. Yes," he
sighed, lifting his eyebrows and smiling again, "it looks as if I'm the only person in the whole
world who knows where to find her."

And then the man in the yellow suit sat forward. His long face took on a hard expression.
"Now, I don't have to spell things out for people like yourselves. Some types one comes
across can't seem to cut their way through any problem, and that does make things difficult.
But you, I don't have to explain the situation to you.

I've got what you want, and you've got what I want. Of course, you might find that child
without me, but. . . you might not find her in time. So: I want the wood and you want the
child. It's a trade. A simple, clear-cut trade."

He looked around at the three shocked faces, and as if he were seeing nothing there but
calm agreement, he smiled delightedly and rubbed his hands together. "Done and done," he
said. "I knew right away, I said to myself, 'Now here is a group of intelligent, reasonable
people!' I'm seldom wrong as a judge of character.

Very seldom disappointed. So! All that remains is to write it up on paper, giving me the
wood, and to sign it.

It's best, don't you agree, to keep things legal and tidy. The rest is easy. Nothing to it. You
go for your local constable, and he and I ride out and bring back the child and the criminals.

No—oh, no, Mr. Foster—I understand your concern, but you mustn't come along. We'll do
this business my way. There now! Your terrible ordeal is as good as over, isn't it? I'm so
thankful I was here to help you out!"

16

The constable was fat, and he was sleepy. He wheezed when he spoke. And he spoke
quite a bit as they started off, he and the man in the yellow suit. "First they roust me out of
bed in the middle of the night, after I been out since sun-up looking for that child, and now I
s'pose you're going to try to run me all the way," he said sourly. "I got to tell you this horse of
mine is none too strong. I don't have to hurry her as a rule, so most of the time it don't matter.
Seems to me we could've waited till dawn, anyway."

The man in the yellow suit was as courteous as always. "The Fosters have been waiting
since yesterday morning," he pointed out. "Naturally, they're very upset. The sooner we get
there, the sooner that child will be with them again."

"How come you're so deep in it?" asked the constable suspiciously. "Maybe you're in
cahoots with the kidnappers, how do I know? You should of reported it right off, when you
saw her get snatched."

The man in the yellow suit sighed. "But of course I had to find out where they were taking
her," he explained patiently. "I came right back after that. And the Fosters are friends of mine.
They've—uh—sold me their wood."

The constable's eyes went round. "I'll be!" he said. "What do you know about that! I didn't
suppose they'd ever do a thing like that, friend or no friend. They're the first family around
here, you know. Proud as peacocks, all ofem. Family-proud, and land-proud, too. But they
sold off, did they? Well, well." And he whistled in amazement.

They thumped along in silence for a while, out around the wood and across the star-lit
meadow. Then the constable yawned deeply and said, "You ready to tell me how long this is
going to take? How far we got to go?"

"Twenty miles north," said the man in the yellow suit.
The constable groaned. "Twenty miles!" He shifted the shotgun that rested across his
saddle, and groaned again. "Clear up in the foothills? That's a fair way, all right."
There was no reply to this. The constable ran his fingers down the gleaming barrel of the
shotgun.
Then he shrugged, and slumped a little in the saddle. "Might as well relax," he wheezed,
suddenly companionable. "We'll be riding three, four hours."
Still there was no reply.
"Yessir," said the constable, trying again. "It's something new for these parts, kidnapping.
Never had a case like this before that I know of, and I been in charge going on fifteen years."
He waited.
"You don't say so," his companion said at last.
"Yep, that's a fact," said the constable, with evident relief. Maybe now there would be
some conversation!
"Yep, fifteen years. Seen a lot of trouble in fifteen years, but nothing quite like this.

'Course, there's a first time for everything, as they say. We got a brand-new jailhouse, did
you notice? Listen, it's a dandy! Give those folks nice clean accommodations." He chuckled.
"'Course, they won't be there long. Circuit judge'll be coming through next week. He'll send
'em over to Charleyville, most likely, to the county jail. That's what they do for your serious
crimes. 'Course, we got a gallows of our own, if we ever need it. Keeps down trouble, I
think, just having it there. Ain't ever used it yet. That's because they take care of the serious
stuff over to Charleyville, like I say."

The constable paused to light a cigar, and went on cheerfully: "What you got planned for
that piece of Foster land? Going to clear her? Put up a house, or a store, maybe?"

"No," said the man in the yellow suit.
The constable waited for more, but there was no more. His sour mood returned. He
frowned and shook the ashes from his cigar. "Say," he said. "You're kind of a close-lipped
feller, ain't you?"
The man in the yellow suit narrowed his eyes. His mouth, above the thin gray beard,
twitched with annoyance.
"Look here," he said tightly. "Would you mind if I rode on ahead? I'm worried about that
child. I'll tell you how to get there, and I'll go on ahead and keep watch."
"Well," said the constable grudgingly, "all right, if you're in such a ding-danged hurry. But
don't do nothing till I get there. Those folks are likely dangerous. I'll try to keep up, but this
horse of mine, she's none too strong.
Don't see as how I could get her to a gallop, even if I tried."
"That's right," said the man in the yellow suit. "So I'll go on ahead, and wait outside the
house till you get there."
He explained the route carefully, then dug his heels into the flanks of the fat old horse,
cantering off into the darkness where just a hint of dawn glowed on the edges of the hills far
ahead.
The constable chewed on the end of his cigar. "Humph," he said to his horse. "Did you get
a gander at that suit of clothes? Oh, well, it takes all kinds, as they say." And he followed
slowly after, yawning, the gap between him and the man ahead lengthening with every mile.

17

For the second morning in a row, Winnie Foster woke early. Outside, in the ring of trees
around the pond, the birds were celebrating, giving the new day a brass band's worth of
greeting. Winnie freed herself from the twisted quilt and went to a window. Mist lay on the
surface of the water, and the light was still pale. It looked unreal, and she felt, herself, unreal,
waking where she had, with her hair wild and her dress all crumpled. She rubbed her eyes.
Through the dewy weeds below the window, a toad hopped suddenly into view and Winnie
peered at it eagerly. But no—of course it wasn't the same toad. And remembering that other
toad—her toad, she thought now, almost fondly—it seemed to her that she had been away
from home for weeks. Then she heard a step on the loft stairs and thought, "Jesse!" At once
her cheeks flamed.

But it was Miles. He came into the parlor, and when he saw that she was up, he smiled
and whispered,

"Good! You're awake. Come on—you can help me catch some fish for breakfast."
This time, Winnie was careful not to make a noise when she climbed into the rowboat.
She made her way to her seat in the stern, and Miles handed her two old cane poles—"Watch
out for the hooks!" he warned—and ajar of bait: pork fat cut into little pieces. A big brown
night moth fluttered out from under the oar blades propped beside her on the seat, and
wobbled offtoward nowhere through the fragrant air. And from the bank, something plopped
into the water. A frog! Winnie caught just a glimpse of it as it scissored away from shore.
The water was so clear that she could see tiny brown fish near the bottom, flicking this
way and that.
Miles pushed the rowboat off and sprang in, and soon they were gliding up toward the
near end of the pond, where the water came in from the stream. The locks grated as the oars
dipped and swung, but Miles was skillful. He rowed without a single splash. The dripping
from the blades, as they lifted, sent rows of overlapping circles spreading silently behind
them. It was very peaceful. "They'll take me home
today," thought Winnie. She was somehow certain of this, and began to feel quite cheerful.
She had been kidnapped, but nothing bad had happened, and now it was almost over. Now,
remembering the visits ofthe night before, she smiled—and found that she loved them, this
most peculiar family. They were her friends, after all. And hers alone.
"How'd you sleep?" Miles asked her.
"All right," she said.
"That's good. I'm glad. Ever been fishing before?"
"No," she told him.
"You'll like it. It's fun." And he smiled at her.
The mist was lifting now, as the sun poked up above the trees, and the water sparkled.
Miles guided the rowboat near a spot where lily pads lay like upturned palms on the surface.

"We'll let her drift some here," he said. "There'll be trout down in those weeds and stems.
Here—give me the poles and I'll bait the hooks for us."

Winnie sat watching him as he worked. His face was like Jesse's, and yet not like. It was
thinner, without Jesse's rounded cheeks, and paler, and his hair was almost straight, clipped
neatly below the ears. His hands were different, too, the fingers thicker, the skin scrubbed-
looking, but black at the knuckles and under the nails. Winnie remembered then that he
worked sometimes as a blacksmith, and indeed his shoulders, under his threadbare shirt,
were broad and muscled. He looked solid, like an oar, whereas Jesse—well, she decided,

Jesse was like water: thin, and quick.
Miles seemed to sense that she was watching him. He looked up from the bait jar and his
eyes, returning her gaze, were soft. "Remember I told you I had two children?" he asked.
"Well, one ofem was a girl. I took her fishing, too." His face clouded then, and he shook his
head. "Her name was Anna. Lord, how sweet she was, that child! It's queer to think she'd be
close to eighty now, if she's even still alive. And my son—he'd be eighty-two."
Winnie looked at his young, strong face, and after a moment she said, "Why didn't you take
them to the spring and give them some ofthe special water?"
"Well, of course, we didn't realize about the spring while we was still on the farm," said
Miles. "Afterwards, I thought about going to find them. I wanted to, heaven knows. But,
Winnie, how'd it have been if I had? My wife was nearly forty by then. And the children—
well, what was the use? They'd have been near growed theirselves. They'd have had a pa
close to the same age they was. No, it'd all have been so mixed up and peculiar, it just
wouldn't have worked. Then Pa, he was dead-set against it, anyway. The fewer people know
about the spring, he says, the fewer there are to tell about it. Here—here's your pole. Just
ease the hook down in the water. You'll know when you get a bite."
Winnie clutched her pole, sitting sidewise in the stern, and watched the baited hook sink
slowly down. A dragonfly, a brilliant blue jewel, darted up and paused over the lily pads,
then swung up and away. From the nearest bank, a bullfrog spoke.
"There certainly are a lot of frogs around here," Winnie observed.
"That's so," said Miles. "They'll keep coming, too, long as the turtles stay away. Snappers,
now, they'll eat a frog soon as look at him."
Winnie thought about this peril to the frogs, and sighed. "It'd be nice," she said, "if nothing
ever had to die."
"Well, now, I don't know," said Miles. "If you think on it, you come to see there'd be so
many creatures, including people, we'd all be squeezed in right up next to each other before
long."
Winnie squinted at her fishing line and tried to picture a teeming world. "Mmm," she said,
"yes, I guess you're right."
Suddenly the cane pole jerked in her hands and bent into an arch, its tip dragged down
nearly to the water's surface. Winnie held on tight to the handle, her eyes wide.
"Hey!" cried Miles. "Look there! You got a bite. Fresh trout for breakfast, Winnie."
But just as suddenly the pole whipped straight again and the line went slack. "Shucks,"
said Miles. "It got away."
"I'm kind of glad," Winnie admitted, easing her rigid grip on the butt of the pole. ”You

fish, Miles. I'm not so sure I want to."
And so they drifted for a little longer. The sky was blue and hard now, the last ofthe mist

dissolved, and the sun, stepping higher above the trees, was hot on Winnie's back. The first
week ofAugust was reasserting itself after a good night's sleep. It would be another searing
day.

A mosquito appeared and sat down on Winnie's knee. She slapped at it absently, thinking
about what Miles had said. If all the mosquitoes lived forever—and if they kept on having
babies!—it would be terrible. The Tucks were right. It was best if no one knew about the
spring, including the mosquitoes. She would keep the secret. She looked at Miles, and then
she asked him, "What will you do, if you've got so much time?"

"Someday," said Miles, "I'll find a way to do something important."
Winnie nodded. That was what she wanted.
"The way I see it," Miles went on, "it's no good hiding yourself away, like Pa and lots of
other people. And it's no good just thinking of your own pleasure, either. People got to do
something useful if they're going to take up space in the world."
"But what will you do?" Winnie persisted.
"I don't know yet," said Miles. "I ain't had no schooling or nothing, and that makes it
harder." Then he set his jaw and added, "I'll find a way, though. I'll locate something."
Winnie nodded. She reached out and ran her fingers across a lily pad that lay on the water
beside the boat. It was warm and very dry, like a blotter, but near its center was a single
drop of water, round and perfect. She touched the drop and brought her fingertip back wet;
but the drop of water, though it rolled a little, remained as round and perfect as before.
And then Miles caught a fish. There it flopped, in the bottom of the boat, its jaw working,
its gills fanning rapidly. Winnie drew up her knees and stared at it. It was beautiful, and
horrible too, with gleaming, rainbow-colored scales, and an eye like a marble beginning to
dim even as she watched it. The hook was caught in its upper lip, and suddenly Winnie
wanted to weep. "Put it back, Miles," she said, her voice dry and harsh. "Put it back right
away."
Miles started to protest, and then, looking at her face, he picked up the trout and gently
worked the barbed hook free. "All right, Winnie," he said. He dropped the fish over the edge
of the boat. It flipped its tail and disappeared under the lily pads.
"Will it be all right?" asked Winnie, feeling foolish and happy both at once.
"It'll be all right," Miles assured her. And then he said, "People got to be meat-eaters
sometimes, though. It's the natural way. And that means killing things."
"I know," said Winnie weakly. "But still."
"Yes," said Miles. "I know."

18

And so there were flapjacks again for breakfast, but no one seemed to mind. "Didn't get a
bite, eh?" said Mae.

"No," said Miles, "nothing we wanted to keep."
That was true, anyway. And though Winnie blushed as he said it, she was grateful that he
didn't explain.
"Never mind," said Mae. "You're likely out of practice. Tomorrow, maybe."
"Sure," said Miles. "Tomorrow."
But it was the thought of seeing Jesse again that kept Winnie's stomach fluttering. And at
last he came down from the loft, yawning and rosy, rubbing his curls, just as Mae was piling
the plates with flapjacks. "Well, slug-a-bed," she said to him fondly. "You come near to
missing breakfast. Miles and Winnie been up for hours, out fishing and back already."
"Oh?" said Jesse, his eyes on Miles. "Where's the fish, then? How come we got nothing
but flapjacks?"
"No luck," said Mae. "They wasn't biting, for some reason."
"Reason is, Miles don't know how to fish," said Jesse. He grinned at Winnie and she
lowered her eyes, her heart thumping.
"It don't matter," said Mae. "We got plenty without. Come and get your plates,
everybody."
They sat about in the parlor, as they had the night before. The ceiling swam with bright
reflections, and sunlight streamed across the dusty, chip-strewn floor. Mae surveyed it all
and sighed contentedly. "Now, this is real nice," she said, her fork poised above her plate.
"Everyone sitting down together. And having Winnie here—why, it's just like a party."
"That's the truth," said Jesse and Miles both together, and Winnie felt a rush of happiness.
"Still, we got things to discuss," Tuck reminded them. "There's the business of the horse
getting stole. And we got to get Winnie home where she belongs. How we going to do that
without the horse?"
"After breakfast, Tuck," said Mae firmly. "Don't spoil a good meal with a lot of talk.
We'll get to it soon enough."
So they were silent, eating, and this time Winnie licked the syrup from her fingers without
pausing to think about it first. Her fears at last night's supper seemed silly to her now.
Perhaps they were crazy, but they weren't criminals. She loved them. They belonged to her.
Tuck said, "How'd you sleep, child?" And she answered, "Just fine," and wished, for a
fleeting moment, that she could stay with them forever in that sunny, untidy little house by the
pond. Grow up with them and perhaps, if it was true about the spring—then perhaps, when
she was seventeen . . . She glanced at Jesse, where he sat on the floor, his curly head bent
over his plate. Then she looked at Miles. And then her eyes went to Tuck and lingered on his
sad, creased face. It occurred to her that he was the dearest ofthem all, though she couldn't

have explained why she felt that way.
However, there wasn't time to wonder, for at that moment someone knocked at the door.
It was such an alien sound, so sudden and surprising, that Mae dropped her fork, and

everyone looked up, startled. "Who's that?" said Tuck.
"I can't imagine," whispered Mae. "We ain't never had callers in all the years we been

here."
The knock came again. "I'll go, Ma," said Miles.
"No, stay where you are," she said. "I’ll go." She put her plate down carefully on the floor

and stood up, straightening her skirts. Then she went to the kitchen and opened the door.
Winnie recognized the voice at once. It was a rich and pleasant voice. The man in the

yellow suit. And he was saying, "Good morning, Mrs. Tuck. It is Mrs. Tuck, isn't it. May I
come in?"

19

The man in the yellow suit came into the sunlit parlor. He stood for a moment, looking
around at them all,

Mae and Miles and Jesse and Tuck, and Winnie, too. His face was without expression, but
there was something unpleasant behind it that Winnie sensed at once, something that made her
instantly suspicious. And yet his voice was mild when he said, "You're safe now, Winifred.
I've come to take you home."

"We was going to bring her back directly, ourself," said Tuck, standing up slowly. "She
ain't been in no danger."

"You're Mr. Tuck, I suppose," said the man in the yellow suit.
"I am," said Tuck formally, his back straighter than usual.
"Well, you may as well sit down again. You, too, Mrs. Tuck. I have a great deal to say
and very little time for saying it."
Mae sat down on the edge ofthe rocker, and Tuck sat, too, but his eyes were narrowed.
Jesse said, uneasily, "Who in tarnation do you think you—"
But Tuck interrupted. "Hush, boy. Let him speak his piece."
"That's wise," said the man in the yellow suit. "I'll be as brief as possible." He took off
his hat and laid it on the mantel, and then he stood tapping his foot on the littered hearth,
facing them. His face was smooth and empty.
"I was born west of here," he began, "and all the time I was growing up, my grandmother
told me stories.
They were wild, unbelievable stories, but I believed them. They involved a dear friend of
my grandmother's who married into a very odd family. Married the older oftwo sons, and
they had two children. It was after the children were born that she began to see that the family
was odd. This friend of my grandmother's, she lived with her husband for twenty years, and
strange to say, he never got any older. She did, but he didn't. And neither did his mother or
his father or his brother. People began to wonder about that family, and my grandmother's
friend decided at last that they were witches, or worse. She left her husband and came with
her children to live at my grandmother's house for a short while. Then she moved west. I
don't know what became ofher. But my mother still remembers playing with the children.
They were all about the same age. There was a son, and a daughter."
"Anna!" whispered Miles.
Mae burst out, "You got no call to come and bring us pain!"
And Tuck added roughly, "You got something to say, you better come to the point and say
it."
"There, there, now," said the man in the yellow suit. He spread his long, white fingers in a
soothing gesture.
"Hear me out. As I've told you, I was fascinated by my grandmother's stories. People who

never grew older!
It was fantastic. It took possession of me. I decided to devote my life to finding out if it

could be true, and if so, how and why. I went to school, I went to a university, I studied
philosophy, metaphysics, even a little medicine. None of it did me any good. Oh, there were
ancient legends, but nothing more. I nearly gave it up.

It began to seem ridiculous, and a waste of time. I went home. My grandmother was very
old by then. I took her a present one day, a music box. And when I gave it to her, it reminded
her of something: the woman, the mother of the family that didn't grow old, she had had a
music box."

Mae's hand went to the pocket of her skirt. Her mouth opened, and then she shut it again
with a snap.

"That music box played a very particular tune," the man in the yellow suit went on. "My
grandmother's friend and her children—Anna? Was that the daughter's name?—they'd heard it
so often that they knew it by heart.

They'd taught it to my mother during the short time they lived in the house. We talked about
it then, all those years afterward, my mother, my grandmother, and I. My mother was able to
remember the melody, finally.

She taught it to me. That was nearly twenty years ago now, but I kept it in my head. It was
a clue."

The man in the yellow suit folded his arms and rocked a little. His voice was easy, almost
friendly. "During those twenty years," he said, "I worked at other things. But I couldn't forget
the tune or the family that didn't grow older. They haunted my dreams. So a few months ago I
left my home and I started out to look for them, following the route they were said to have
taken when they left their farm. No one I asked along the way knew anything. No one had
heard of them, no one recognized their name. But two evenings ago, I heard that music box, I
heard that very tune, and it was coming from the Fosters' wood. And next morning early, I
saw the family at last, taking Winifred away. I followed, and I heard their story, every
word."

Mae's face drained of color. Her mouth hung open. And Tuck said hoarsely, "What you
going to do?"

The man in the yellow suit smiled. "The Fosters have given me the wood," he said. "In
exchange for bringing Winifred home. I was the only one who knew where she was, you see.
So it was a trade. Yes, I followed you,

Mrs. Tuck, and then I took your horse and went directly back."
The tension in the parlor was immense. Winnie found that she could scarcely breathe. It
was true, then! Or was the man who stood there crazy, too?
"Horse thief!" cried Tuck. "Get to the point! What you going to do?"
"It's very simple," said the man in the yellow suit. And, as he said this, the smoothness of
his face began to loosen a little. A faint flush crept up his neck, and the pitch of his voice
lifted, became a fraction higher. "Like all magnificent things, it's very simple. The wood—
and the spring—belong to me now." He patted his breast pocket. "I have a paper here, all
signed and legal, to prove it. I'm going to sell the water, you see."
"You can't do that!" roared Tuck. "You got to be out of your mind!"

The man in the yellow suit frowned. "But I'm not going to sell it to just anybody," he
protested. "Only to certain people, people who deserve it. And it will be very, very
expensive. But who wouldn't give a fortune to live forever?"

"I wouldn't," said Tuck grimly.
"Exactly," said the man in the yellow suit. His eyes glowed. "Ignorant people like you
should never have the opportunity. It should be kept for . . . certain others. And for me.
However, since it's already too late to keep you out, you may as well join me in what I'm
going to do. You can show me where the spring is and help me to advertise. We'll set up
demonstrations. You know—things that would be fatal to anybody else, but won't affect you
in the least. I'll pay for your assistance, of course. It won't take long for the word to spread.
And then you can go your way. Well, what do you say?"
Jesse said dully, "Freaks. You want us to be freaks. In a patent-medicine show."
The man in the yellow suit raised his eyebrows and a nervous petulance came into his
voice. "Of course, if the idea doesn't appeal to you," he said, blinking rapidly, "you needn't
be in on it. I can find the spring and manage just as well without you. But it seemed the
gentlemanly thing to make the offer. After all," he added, looking round at the cluttered room,
"it would mean you could afford to live like people again, instead of pigs."
And that was when the tension burst. All four Tucks sprang to their feet at once, while
Winnie, very frightened, shrank back in her chair. Tuck cried, "You're a madman! A loony!
You can't let no one know about that water. Don't you see what would happen?"
"I've given you your chance," shrilled the man in the yellow suit, "and you've refused it."
He seized Winnie roughly by the arm and dragged her up out of her chair. "I'll take the child,
and be on about my business."
Tuck began to rave now, his face stretched with horror. "Madman!" he shouted. And
Miles and Jesse began to shout, too. They crowded after as the man in the yellow suit
dragged Winnie through the kitchen to the door.
"No!" she was screaming, for now at last she hated him. "I won't go with you! I won't!"
But he opened the door and pushed her out in front ofhim His eyes were like blind
firepoints, his face was twisted.
Then the shouting behind them stopped abruptly, and in the midst ofthe sudden silence
came Mae's voice, flat and cold. "You leave that child be," she said.
Winnie stared. Mae was standing just outside the doorway. She held Tuck's long-forgotten
shotgun by the barrel, like a club.
The man in the yellow suit smiled a ghastly smile. "I can't think why you're so upset. Did
you really believe you could keep that water for yourselves? Your selfishness is really quite
extraordinary, and worse than that, you're stupid. You could have done what I'm about to do,
long ago. Now it's too late. Once Winifred drinks some of the water, she'll do just as well for
my demonstrations. Even better. Children are much more appealing, anyway. So you may as
well relax. There's nothing you can do to stop me."
But he was wrong. Mae lifted the shotgun. Behind her, Miles gasped, "Ma! No!"
But Mae's face was dark red. "Not Winnie!" she said between clenched teeth. "You ain't
going to do a thing like that to Winnie. And you ain't going to give out the secret." Her strong
arms swung the shotgun round her head, like a wheel. The man in the yellow suit jerked

away, but it was too late. With a dull cracking sound, the stock of the shotgun smashed into
the back of his skull. He dropped like a tree, his face surprised, his eyes wide open. And at
that very moment, riding through the pine trees just in time to see it all, came the Treegap
constable.

20

Winnie was standing with her cheek pressed into Tuck's chest, her arms flung tight around
him. She trembled, and kept her eyes squeezed shut. She could feel Tuck's breath come and
go in little gasps. It was very quiet.

The Treegap constable knelt over the sprawled body of the man in the yellow suit, and
then he said, "He ain't dead. Leastways, not yet."

Winnie opened her eyes a crack. She could see the shotgun lying on the grass where Mae
had dropped it. She could see Mae's hands, too, hanging limp, clenching, then hanging limp
again. The sun was scorching hot, and near her ear a gnat whined.

The constable stood up. "What did you hit him for?" he wheezed resentfully.
"He was taking the child away," said Mae. Her voice was dull and exhausted. "He was
taking the child against her will."
At this the constable exploded. "Ding-dang it, woman, what you trying to say? Taking that
child against her will? That's what you done. You kidnapped that child."
Winnie let go of Tuck's waist and turned around. Her trembling had stopped. "They didn't
kidnap me," she said. "I came because I wanted to."
Behind her, Tuck drew his breath in sharply.
"You wanted to?" echoed the constable, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You wanted to?"
"That's right," said Winnie unflinchingly. "They're my friends."
The constable stared at her. He scratched his chin, eyebrows high, and eased his own
shotgun to the ground.
Then he shrugged and looked down at the man in the yellow suit, who lay motionless on
the grass, the blazing sun white on his face and hands. His eyes were closed now, but except
for that, he looked more than ever like a marionette, a marionette flung carelessly into a
corner, arms and legs every which way midst tangled strings.
The one glance she gave him fixed his appearance forever in Winnie's mind. She turned
her eyes away quickly, looking to Tuck for relief. But Tuck was not looking back at her.
Instead, he was gazing at the body on the ground, leaning forward slightly, his brows drawn
down, his mouth a little open. It was as if he were entranced and—yes, envious—like a
starving man looking through a window at a banquet. Winnie could not bear to see him like
that. She reached out a hand and touched him, and it broke the spell. He blinked and took her
hand, squeezing it.
"Well, anyway," said the constable at last, turning businesslike, "I got to take charge here.
Get this feller into the house before he fries. I'm telling you now: if he don't make it, you're in
a pickle, you people. Now, here's what we'll do. You," he said, pointing at Mae, "you got to
come with me, you and the little girl. You got to be locked up right away; and the little girl, I
got to get her home. The rest ofyou, you stay here with him. Look after him. I'll get back with
a doctor quick as I can. Should have brought a deputy, but I didn't expect nothing like this to